Identity
by The Goliath Beetle
Summary: "Prussia still has nightmares about 25th February 1947. Of course, he isn't Prussia any more. He's Gilbert Beilschmidt. He's nothing. Just a name, barely even an identity. A stupid old ex-nation. He's not even on the map." -ONESHOT-


Prussia still has nightmares about 25th February 1947.

Of course, he isn't _Prussia _any more. He's Gilbert Beilschmidt.

He's nothing. Just a name, barely even an identity. A stupid old ex-nation.

He's not even on the map.

* * *

On the 25th of February 1947, his country was dissolved.

Gilbert remembers feeling a sudden jolt in his chest, an agonising pain, like he was having a heart attack. It burned from the inside as he gasped for air, clinging onto life. The world spun around him and everything faded to black.

He hadn't expected to wake up.

But he did.

* * *

Prussia awoke in an ill-lit basement, on a lumpy bed, with a raging fever and stabs of pain all over his body. He remembers feeling confused. Why wasn't he in his mansion, in his huge bedroom, with those silken sheets and breakfast in bed? Where was he? Why?

And then he gasps, because it all comes rushing back to him.

Prussia—

Wait, he isn't Prussia any more.

Gilbert lets out a strangled sob.

* * *

He was still in Russia. Before, Stalin did have control, but Prussia had been his own country back then. Now he was nothing. Nothing but Ivan's little toy. The purple-eyed Russian entered the basement and sneered at him a little. "I'm surprised you're still around. But you won't last long, I'm sure."

But Gilbert _did. _

The first few weeks were the worst. He was ill, and given no medicine. He ate his pittance of a meal, often vomiting it a few moments later. His fever never went down, his headache never left, and his chest hurt and hurt and hurt, until Gilbert was clawing at the mattress, burying his head into a pillow, pleading with god, Ivan, the Allies to just _kill him, please, kill him now. _

But they didn't listen. He should have died when Prussia was dissolved, they said. Even now, everybody expected him to disappear.

He refused to accept it.

"I'm here," he would moan into the pillow. "Please, I'm still here."

* * *

What did it mean? The dissolution of a country? What did it mean?

The land, the geographical area, still existed. But that was the least important thing. Countries needed land, sure, but there was more to it. They needed a government, and that is what Gilbert lost. They needed people, because nationality is a personal thing, it exists in the hearts of humans.

Gilbert had no government. Gilbert's people were calling themselves German. Gilbert was in Russia.

Gilbert was disappearing.

* * *

He almost shrieked when he saw his palm become slowly transparent. He was sick, he was _dying._

"But I don't want to go, I'm too awesome to go," he sobbed. Nobody answered him. The basement had only one occupant, and that occupant had little time left.

"West…" Gilbert gasped. "Remember when you were younger?" But Gilbert didn't have the strength to keep talking, so he _remembered _instead. He remembered with all his might. It was like a good-bye note, if by mere power of thought, his younger brother would know just how much Prussia—_Gilbert_— loved him.

He remembered all those times they went hunting together, or all those prank wars, which Gilbert inevitably won. Or all those times Prussia—_PRUSSIA, GOTTVERDAMMT—_would just talk to his brother, fill his head up with dreams of greatness and power.

But all that ruminating took him back to his past, and he thinks about his childhood. He thought about the Teutonic Knights, Hungary, Old Fritz, France and Spain and the War of Austrian Succession. He thought, he remembered, he dreamed and he wished. As if by mere power of thought, he could make time stop. He could go back to when he was _someone, someplace, something, _he could just go back and stop the dissolution of Prussia.

But he couldn't do that. Prussia, the nation, was gone.

So why was it that substance was returning to his palm…?

Wait…was he not disappearing anymore?

* * *

Gilbert realised that he was getting stronger. Despite the illness, despite the meagre quantities of food, despite not being a country any more. He could sit up, he could _almost _walk. And when he realised this, he didn't question it. Not at first.

First, he smiled to himself and said, "I'm feeling awesome again."

Which made him feel even better.

Days passed, and slowly, he started to understand.

_He started to understand. _

Gilbert Beilschmidt grew up.

He grew up in a basement somewhere in Russia, an ex-nation, but not an ex-person.

Gilbert was hollow because he could no longer feel the collective beating hearts of his people, nor the anger or joy they felt. His brain suddenly freed from the confines of politics. He was free to think, to form an opinion or take a stance that _wasn't _the same as his bosses.

But it was a delicate balance. Gilbert knew why he was still alive. Because he hadn't lost his sense of self. The Roman Empire, Germania, and countless others had eventually disappeared. Why? Because they were wiped off the map, they were disconnected from _who they used to be, _that that's why they became disconnected from themselves.

That is why they disappeared.

And Gilbert couldn't revel in his newfound freedom for too long. If he did, he would forget that he was PRUSSIA, even if he wasn't on the map, even if his people were German, even if he lived in a basement in Russia, under Ivan's rule.

"I have my culture, I have my beliefs, I have my history," he would tell himself. "I am Prussia, I am awesome."

* * *

Present day. And he still does the same thing. His room is still a basement, but at least he lives with West now, and West is a good kid. There is no loneliness, no brutality, only laughter, brotherly teasing, and love. Even though Gilbert would never admit it, he likes it here.

There is a historical map taped to the wall, a birthday gift from France and Spain. It clearly outlines the Kingdom of Prussia, and when he lies in bed, it falls perfectly within his line of sight. Gilbert's favourite colour is Prussian blue, and he wears it all the time. He talks non-stop about how awesome he is, about his greatness and power.

Even though he has no power any more. Not even in his own countr—not even in Germany. No matter how much he likes it here, Germany would never be his home. Of course, Prussia's gone. Long gone.

But why should that stop him from being awesome? Because he _used _to be really powerful, really great. He used to be feared, loved, respected. So why shouldn't he celebrate it?

Prussia—_Prussia, Prussia, not Gilbert, you fools—_thinks about his past, idle reminiscing, but it's more than enough. He maintains his identity, that he is Prussian, not German. He visits the places that used to be part of his country, his ex-country. Familiar memories, happier times, they flood back to him.

And it's not all bad. Gilbert has friends. Francis and Antonio, his brother, cute little Feliciano, and even his badmouthed twin, Lovino. Even Elizabeta is his friend, though sometimes he wishes they could be more than that. None of these people would ever forget him—well, he wouldn't let them forget him.

And he sometimes talks to Canada, Matthew, Francis's ex-colony. Sure, Canada is a country, but nobody ever notices young Mattie. Both him and Gilbert are 'loners', and both of them know what it's like to be overlooked. So they have a lot in common, and Gilbert knows that Matthew gets it.

It's on the bad days, when he feels especially scared or worthless that West will sit next to him and talk about old times. West talks about hunting together, prank wars that Gilbert inevitably won, about the awesomeness of the Teutonic Knights, or the beautiful Prussian countryside. On _really _bad days, West just sits next to Gilbert while the latter is lying in bed, shaking in terror. And West will sing Prussian lullabies, and just talk and talk about the awesomeness of the War of Austrian Succession, or Old Fritz, and how Germany wouldn't be the same without Prussia. And when it's all better, Ludwig would never mention it, because his brother would get embarrassed. But Gilbert would awkwardly pat him on the shoulder and cough up a feeble, "Thank you."

Francis and Antonio drag him out for drinks, and he knows he can be completely himself with them because they would never judge, never ignore. And sure, he lets them talk about their governments, their countries, their economic ups and downs. It doesn't bother him, because they never mean to show him up—they just need someone to talk to. In return, Gilbert brags about how he doesn't have to worry about such stupid things, he's got West to do all the worrying, haha. And Antonio and Francis know if he's being genuinely teasing or bitter, and they always act accordingly.

So really, he's quite happy these days. He's not alone, even though he's not a country any more. Sometimes he worries about dying, disappearing, but then he stops himself.

"Prussia is too awesome for death," he says out loud. Because the real danger is not losing a country, but losing a nationality. And Gilbert will always be Prussian.

* * *

**A/N: I hope none of my facts are wrong. If they are, though, please let me know. I had a lot of fun writing this. I hope you enjoyed reading it. Please leave a review :) **

**Thanks for reading! **


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